Good Morning, Sunshine!
by CodependentLiza
Summary: Anorexic Bella is brought to the Masen family home in Chicago by a desperate Charlie hoping for advice and assistance from his old friends. Of course, (note the author), who does he find but a willingly-protective Edward missing something in his life that happens to fit just perfectly with what Bella has to offer. ExB eventually, but not romantically while she's underage! AH,cc's


**Author's Note in Bold - Scroll Down for Story in Normal Font**

**Strategies for Facing Anxiety-Producing Social/Relational Situations:**

**1. Dark humor: How bad can it get? How funny? How absurd? How insulting? Worst-case scenario actually becomes triumph in this situation, as you out-do yourself in bad events and befuddled relationships. (Thank you, Ru.)**

**2. Intentional Dissociation: View yourself as an actor or character in a play or story. Try to view yourself in your mind's eye from outside your body; comment to yourself in third person; think about the character's dynamics, needs and likely actions as if he/she is not yourself. (Thank you, Molly.)**

**3. Look for Love, not just in others' reactions to you, but more especially, in the opportunities they provide you to love them back, or love them in spite of themselves.**

**4. Review for yourself all the times you faced ****judgmentalness, ignorance and spite **and rose above them, or were immune to them, or ignored them, or transformed them into something beautiful (even—especially—when it hurt).

**5. View your anxiety as a sacrifice you're laying down at the altar of the greater good, a devotional you're making to God's love. It wouldn't count so much if it didn't hurt so much: more pain=greater gift=better sacrifice (the martyr's equation)!**

**6. Focus on the reason the situation is important; the spiritual/relational goal being served that makes all the anxiety and fear-of-shame-or-loss worthwhile. If you focus on whom you are doing it for and what the stakes are rather than the fear, it might be easier to ignore the anxiety.**

**7. Bribe yourself. With chocolate. With fanfiction. With chocolate and fanfiction. As reward, or as alternating activity—for example, open in-box, eat chocolate. Open first message, eat chocolate. Etc. Yes, this strategy will tend to make you fat, unless you're lucky enough to be able to bribe yourself with exercise instead. But then, life is all about hard choices.**

**8. I almost left this one out but remembered it as I was chasing the boys around the yard today: get exercise and sleep. It's annoying, but it's true: exercise and sleep make everything better. Doesn't mean they make difficult situations easy, or even possible to endure, but they do make them _better_ than they would be otherwise, and as a long-term investment in stability and emotional security are probably _almost_ as good as chocolate. All right, all right, _better_ _than_ chocolate in the long run—but I'd still be tempted to grab the dark chocolate off a sinking ship before the running shoes. **

**9. Say a mantra-prayer/sing something/shake your hands/bounce on your feet/do something repetitive to distract from the anxiety of the moment long enough to get it done.**

**10. Use magic. Develop ********imaginative routines of incantations or special objects/clothing (real or make-believe) ****that you convince yourself give you extra power to face the anxiety demon you're struggling with…this strategy may take more time to implement than others as it requires you to build some sort of conviction in the particular words/routine/object as a magically- or spiritually-protective item, and may not work at all if you're too much a hard-headed realist—although if that's the case, you're probably struggling with a different sort of anxiety than I am, since the sort I'm familiar with is based on very imaginative predictions of doom, and a very fantastical (though in some ways also entirely accurate) sense of emotional reality. This strategy takes the destructively-imaginative nature of anxiety and turns it back on itself, creating the solution as well as the problem.**

**11. Buddy up. Challenge a friend to do something bothering her at the same time that you face what bothers you, and do phone or text check-ins as you go along. Make promises to someone that you will address a problem area by a certain date, and then expect to be accountable to her or him (although pick someone supportive rather than punitive, and with whom you feel relatively safe).**

**12. Acknowledge the need for avoidance. Sometimes, the stress of facing something is really more than we can manage; forgive yourself for this, and don't waste time trying to psychically beat yourself into doing something that you don't have the emotional stamina for at the moment. Instead of moving into avoidance activities as a failure, CHOOSE to delay the anxiety-producing activity by doing something relaxing instead, and TELL YOURSELF you are building your emotional reserves to be able to face the stressor in an hour/a day/a week/a month. This isn't cheating; it's smart emotion management. The trick is simply to stay honest with oneself, and keep asking yourself whether you're ready to be brave (or not) rather than denying the issue or pretending it will just go away, or isn't as important as it truly is to you.**

**As you can probably guess, your friend CL (that's me—I'm practicing my dissociation skills by talking about myself in the 3****rd****-person) is having a difficult time managing her anxiety lately, and her – wait for it (sorry, my 6-year-old says that all the time and I'm afraid it's rubbing off)—SHAME. Because of the high levels of these challenging emotions, I have been unable to focus enough lately to continue involved story lines. I'm reasonably confident this will change (I have to be in order to get out of bed in the morning) in the near future, but while you're waiting, here's one more story start for those of you who, like me, feed emotionally off of the protective-Edward dynamic towards Bella. Sorry it's not more, but it's all I can manage right now.**

**Hope you are all well. And if you aren't, and wish to commiserate with me about it, feel free to personal message me, but be sure to title it something like "Want your input" or "Looking for support" because otherwise, the suffocating shame is likely to cause me to assume that you are writing to criticize or make fun. The way around pre-emptive social shame for a temporarily beaten-down relational-emoter like me is to pull on my heartstrings and get me thinking about you and your difficulties instead of my own short-comings—so go ahead and yank! Hard! **

**By the way, if any of you are trapped in an exploitative situation, where you're being controlled and used by others for financial gain, know that you are a worthwhile and lovable person, no matter what choices you made that may have led you to your current predicament. Shame is the monster that will try to keep you there, and those that are benefitting from your exploitation will feed it well. So when it roars, remind yourself that shame is the illusion that makes the beauty of your soul look like a deformity, and the poison that turns your most passionate efforts to help yourself into what feel like your biggest mistakes. I know I preach better than I manage in my own life, but please, try not to listen to shame; it only makes things worse. **

**Instead, if you're being controlled and exploited for your labor or your body, or you think you know someone who is, call the National Human Trafficking Resource Center at 1-888-373-7888, or text BeFree (233733). **

**Or, if you are less-dramatically trapped in a painful situation by the seeming deficiencies of your own nature and a lack of hopeful alternatives, know that you are not alone in spirit no matter how alone you are in physical reality, that new days bring the possibility of positive changes, and that the world needs you every bit as much as you need Edward—and if you're anything like me, that's a #$% lot. **

**Much love to you,**

**Liza**

**p.s. To Stephenie Meyer goes the spoils; to all of us the love!**

**XXX**

Charlie takes a summer road trip with 16-year-old Bella to Chicago, hoping to re-connect with old friend Edward Masen, Sr. and his wife…whom he hope will give him some good advice about how to help his daughter, who is getting more and more depressed. She actually tried to kill herself while still living in Phoenix at the end of her sophomore year, and though it wasn't a very effective attempt, Charlie was beside himself while Renee was just pissed. Since then, Bella's been living in Forks, and though she's managed to stay out of the Emergency Room (at least for psychological issues), she now weighs next-to nothing and has no social life or future plans.

So Charlie is still desperate, and now really acting it, driving out to see the savviest people he knows, his old high school friend Edward Masen (who became a wealthy lawyer, though he started dirt poor just like Charlie) and his socialite wife (whom Edward, Sr. met while on scholarship at the University of Chicago). Edward, Sr. and Charlie had remained good friends after going their separate ways, Edward to college and law school, Charlie to junior college and then the police academy. Elizabeth, Edward's wife, had taken Charlie under her wing, liking the kind, loyal heart under his gruff exterior, and though their relationship had been strained when Charlie married Renee after a whirlwind courtship and then moved to far-flung Forks, Washington, the Masens welcomed Charlie and his daughter back with open arms after Renee left him.

They had visited him twice out on the Washington coast, and he and Isabella had been out to visit them every summer from when she was two to when she was six, though Charlie hadn't heard much from them after that last visit; nothing since one last birthday present sent to him for Isabella for her 7th birthday (Elizabeth did not approve of Renee leaving Charlie, believing it would hurt Isabella, and had not acknowledged Renee's existence in Phoenix).

Charlie was surprised when the Masens didn't respond to his and Bella's thank-you notes for the present, and assumed what he had always expected had happened—that the ever-more-wealthy and well-connected Edward and Elizabeth had tired of being friends with a working-class cop. This assumption hurt Charlie's pride—and his heart—terribly, and so he didn't try to contact them again, his worst suspicions confirmed when he doesn't even get a Christmas card from them that year.

And that's been that for the last nine years, though Charlie misses them more than he will admit to himself. Now, however, his pride holds no candle to his desperation to find someone to tell him how to help Isabella, how to keep her from wasting away right in front of his eyes, how to help her not be so miserable with life that all she wants to do is escape it. He can't quite work himself up into just calling Elizabeth Masen (whose mothering Charlie had always admired, and wish Renee had emulated), however, so instead he packs up himself and Bella for a road trip to Chicago at the start of their two-week summer vacation in June.

They have travelled all the way to the suburb where the Masens used to live, Charlie hoping with all he has that they still live there and will be willing to help him help his daughter, before Charlie has worked up the nerve to call his old friends at their old phone number. Their son, Edward, Jr., answers.

"Masen residence."

Charlie's heart soars. He's a little shocked by the voice, however, realizing that it must be little Edward, grown into a much bigger Edward now. Clearing his throat, he manages, "Um, hello, this is Ch—" He breaks off, having been about to call himself by his working title, both out of current habit, and because it's what his old friend used to call him as a term of endearment. "Charlie," he quickly amends. Then clarifying, because it's been a long time, "Charlie Swan."

"Uncle Charlie! How are you!" Edward says, remembering him.

"Oh, I'm pretty good son. How are you doing? You must be—well, you must be pretty old by now." Charlie winces at his awkwardness, but Edward just laughs.

"Yep, I'm days away from turning 26, and I have to say I'm liking the birthdays a bit less than I used to."

"That only gets worse, son," Charlie responds good-naturedly, relieved that Edward is receiving him so warmly. "Bet your folks aren't too keen about you growing up so much either."

"Oh. Um, well, Charlie, didn't you ever hear?"

"Hear what?"

"Oh, shit, Charlie; I don't know how you didn't get called. I mean, I guess they didn't think of you way out there in Washington; around here, the news travelled fast."

Charlie's stomach drops. "What news, son?"

"My parents are dead, Charlie. Car crash. About, well, 9 ½ years ago. Coming up on the ten-year anniversary this December. Not something I'll be celebrating, of course."

There's silence. "Charlie? Are you okay? I'm sorry—"

Charlie's voice is full of tears, but he breaks in. "No, Edward, _I'm_ sorry. I should have known your folks wouldn't have just dropped me like that. I can't believe I didn't think to call; to check up on you all. I just assumed—well, never mind. I'm just…son, I don't know what to say. I never thought…" he trails off, having exhausted his words for the time being.

"Don't worry about it, Charlie, please. I know Mom and Dad wouldn't want you to. And I'm doing fine. Really, for a shitty thing to happen to anyone, it was, you know, not nearly as bad as it could have been. They both died on impact, so they didn't suffer, and then I just went to live with my Uncle Carlisle and Aunt Esme. You remember, Dad's fraternity brother and his wife? They've been great; I'm like part of the family now. You should stop by if you're ever in Chicago; I know they'd be very glad to see you. Uncle Carlisle misses Dad, more than he lets on, I think. It would be really good to see you; I'd like that too."

"Oh. Well, Edward, that's very kind of you." Charlie clears his throat sheepishly, decides there's nothing for it but to man up and admit to his current location. "I, [exhales heavily], well I'm here in Chicago right now, son. That's why I called."

There's another pause as Edward processes this; this possibility had not occurred to him, but now he sees the logic of it—of course Charlie wouldn't call out of the blue like this after almost a decade without contact for no good reason. Quickly, Edward recovers, saying, "Well that's great news! Come on over to the old house, and let me see you first. Then we'll catch Carlisle and Esme—I'll wait to call them until after I see you, or they'll make you stop at their house first. Really, Charlie, I'm glad you called. I…I haven't had any reminders of Dad for too long."

"Oh, no, son, I can't trouble you—"

"Uncle Charlie, it's not trouble. I'm—I'm really sorry no one thought to call you. I'm really sorry _I_ didn't think to call you."

"You were just a kid," says Charlie, gruffly, because as much as it had hurt to think the Masens didn't want to have him around anymore, it somehow hurts even more to know they're gone forever.

"You grow up fast when something like that happens," Edward responds, grimly. "I guess I didn't think about calling you because I worked so hard not to remember the good times with my parents; it hurt too much." There's a pause as both men recall some of those good times, and feel the pain associated with knowing that will never happen again. For Charlie, it's a fresh wound; for Edward, an old one.

As he allows himself memories he's kept locked away since the accident, Edward thinks for the first time about Isabella, remembering the shy, sweet little girl that had been the pride of Charlie's life, and the focus of much adoration by his mother. "How's little Isabella?" he asks.

This jolts Charlie out of his grief-stricken reverie, and painfully brings him back to his current situation, made even worse now that he knows he won't be getting any help from his old friends. He tries to cover, but his emotional awkwardness gives him away as he stutters, "Oh, well, she's doing all right," totally unconvincingly.

Edward catches it immediately. "Uncle Charlie, is there something wrong?" he asks.

Charlie breaks. "Well, son, that's why I chanced coming out to see your, to see your folks—" Charlie's voice breaks. This is all on the verge of being too much for him. He takes a deep breath, and tries again. "I was hoping they might be able, well, you know, your mother…" he runs out of steam, taking one last stab at it, "Your mother seemed to really like her," then trails off pitifully, feeling 20 years older than he did when he got up that morning.

Edward has clued in that something is wrong; something serious, and moves into doctor mode. "You mean, she adored your Isabella, and wanted to keep her home with us the last time we got together," Edward said gently.

Charlie just nods, past being able to reply, dangerously near tears.

Edward takes the silence as confirmation, and goes on, his voice authoritative now, as he is just about to enter his last year of residency as an emergency-room physician at the University of Chicago, and has a lot of practice in such a role. "Charlie, what's wrong with Isabella? Has something happened? Is she sick?"

Charlie takes a deep breath, and finally answers. "Well, not sick exactly, just; well, she's having a hard time in high school."

Edward mm-hmm's, in listening tone, encouraging Charlie to keep going. Charlie doesn't, so Edward adds, "What kind of a hard time? Is she failing her classes?"

"Oh no!" Charlie responds; "She's an honor-roll student," which he says with pride, even though he's embarrassed to have to admit what the real problem is.

"Okay, so she's bright, but having a hard time socially?" Edward guesses, trying to feel out what underlies Charlie's obvious embarrassment.

"Yeah, you could say that," Charlie responds gruffly, then looks up as Isabella arrives back at the car from her bathroom break, during which she was occupied throwing up her lunch. The two look at each other, and both look quickly away, Charlie overcome by guilt and worry, Isabella by shame and loneliness.

"Charlie? You still there?" Edward is asking on the phone as Charlie returns his attention to the call.

"Oh, yeah, I'm still here, son. Sorry about that. Listen, Edward, I would really like to see you, but—" Charlie hesitates, not sure what he should do. He had a lot staked on this trip; more than he wants to admit now that it's not panning out remotely as he had hoped. And although he's desperate enough to cast his pride aside and throw himself on the mercy of old friends, now that he knows that's not possible, he doesn't want to impose on his old friends' orphaned son. He finally decides to just be honest. "Well, Isabella isn't in the best shape, and I don't want to impose. I'm thinking maybe we'll just look around a day or two and head back."

Edward won't hear of it. "Absolutely not, Charlie. My parents would be horrified to know you were in Chicago and didn't stay with us; well, with me. And even though they're not around anymore to _be_ horrified, I will know that's how they would feel, and that's bad enough. Besides, I meant it when I said I would really like to see you; not to mention it's perfect timing because I'm on break before my last year of residency."

"Residency?" Charlie asks, still getting used to the idea that the gangly teenager he thinks of Edward as is a full-grown man now, with adult responsibilities.

"You got it, Charlie—at UC, where Dad went to school, remember?"

Charlie remembered all right, and he couldn't help but feel a certain paternal pride over Edward's accomplishment. "Your dad would be so proud, son," he offered gruffly.

Edward's not so grown and adjusted to the losses of his life that he doesn't feel a certain warmth at this statement. "Thank you, Charlie," he responds quietly. Then with more energy he continues, "And you can tell me all about Isabella when you get here. You remember the way in?" he asks, using the social acumen he inherited from his mother to ensure Charlie will come.

Charlie recognizes he's trapped by Edward's good manners, and feels his hope rise, just a little bit, again. Little Edward's a doctor now. Maybe—"Yes, son, I remember."

"Great," Edward replies. "How far out are you?"

Charlie responds, sheepish again. "Ten minutes."

Edward laughs. "Good thing Carmen was here this morning, then. Mom would have never forgiven me having you and Isabella over with a dirty house."

"Your mom was one in a million, Edward," Charlie says, still trying to get his head around the idea that Elizabeth Masen is gone; dead; never to return.

"Yeah, she was," Edward responds easily, glad to help Charlie along in a grieving process that is all too familiar to Edward himself. "I can't wait to see you, Uncle Charlie."

"You too, son," and with that Charlie hangs up, not sure if he's doing the right thing or not, which is a very familiar feeling for him.

When Charlie and Isabella pull in to Edward's driveway, the front door opens, and out he comes. Charlie gets out of the car and walks around to meet him, and the men embrace, tears in Charlie's eyes, and maybe a few in Edward's too. They clap each other on the back, in a very manly way, and then they separate, and both of their eyes go to Isabella, sitting huddled in the front seat, her cheeks burning, her eyes looking straight ahead.

Charlie goes to her door and opens it, and Edward approaches her slowly, his bearing like someone trying to get near a wounded animal without making it flee.

"Edward, here's my Bella," Charlie turns to say. Turning back towards his daughter, he says with forced heartiness, "Bells, you remember Edward. Come on out and say 'Hello.'"

But by the time Charlie has gotten to that point in the re-introductions, Edward is already leaning in, looking down at Bella with a gentle smile and saying, "Welcome back to Chicago, Isabella. I hope you'll enjoy your visit here; I'm very glad to see you again."

She braves a glance up at this man hovering in her face, and sucks in her breath. Their eyes lock as she processes how handsome he is and he how timid and emaciated she appears; both of them are upset by their observations.

Bella looks away first, dropping her head before saying quietly, her voice hoarse but audible, "Thank you. I'm—I'm sorry about your Dad and Mom."

XXX

At dinner, Isabella takes minute portions of everything offered her. Charlie pretends not to notice; Edward watches the proceedings with growing outrage. As Isabella starts to eat with tiny, almost nonexistent fork-fuls, and Charlie glances over at her, then glances quickly away, face red, starting up an unrelated conversation in order to pretend his daughter is not starving herself on purpose across the table from him, Edward has had enough.

He says so. "All right; that's it," he announces, as he shoves his chair back, stands up and goes over to Isabella's place. Leaning down, he gathers her easily in one arm, while his other hand gathers up her silverware and plate. Bringing Bella and her food back to his place, Edward sits down again, tucking Isabella onto his lap and draping his napkin across her chest as she's propped up against him.

"That's better," Edward says, as he reaches for bowls of food and puts more generous servings on her plate, then starts in on feeding her. Bella is incredulous, but opens her mouth when he shoves at it with a fork full of food, eventually chewing and swallowing what he gives her. Charlie is dumbfounded, having had similar impulses but never believing it to be a legitimate option.

Edward continues on in conversation with Charlie as if nothing out of the ordinary is happening, proceeding to feed the girl in his lap until he guesses she's had as much as her system can tolerate, then sets her fork down, and gently wipes her mouth.

Bella has started crying, so Edward pulls her in closer, turning her body so that her head rests on his shoulder, and starts patting her back, shushing her and murmuring soft words in between what he's saying to Charlie.

At this point, Charlie's not even pretending to eat, but is just gawking at Edward.

When Edward notices that Bella's breathing has evened out and deepened, indicating she's asleep, he tells Charlie so. "Okay, Charlie, she's asleep now. What the hell happened to her?"

That lets loose the floodgates, and Charlie launches in, telling the story of how his sweet, happy if shy daughter had transformed, starting in her sixth-grade year, to the terrified, emaciated wreck Edward now held in his lap. It was incomprehensible still to Charlie, although he laid much blame at the feet of Renee and her new boyfriend, and at himself for not bringing Bella back to live with him until the preceeding school year, her junior one. She was now about to enter her senior year with no plans for the future, other than a nebulous intention for college, and no apparent will to live. Heartbroken, sick with guilt, worry and confusion, Charlie looked at Edward as he ended the story by asking, "What do I do?"

Edward tilted his head, then asked, "What medical care has she gotten?"

"She's been seeing a counselor since she was 12; we had her in the hospital a couple of times too. Once, she—well, she took too many pills, by accident; not the whole container, or anything, just a few too many. And once, she passed out at school. They wanted to admit her to a special hospital in Seattle, but she was scared, and she talked me out of it. That might have been a mistake…"

Charlie trailed off, then looked up at Edward, half-expecting him to condemn Charlie for not following through with what the experts had advised, no matter how terrified his little girl had been at the idea of being locked up. It was ironic, seeing as Charlie locked people up for a living, but maybe exactly because of his familiarity with the dehumanization of the process, he was loathe to do that to his own child.

Edward, however, didn't look condemning; he looked thoughtful. Bella, asleep, nuzzled her head into Edward's shoulder at that moment, and Edward dipped his head down to look at her, noting how one of her hands had reached up and grabbed onto his shirt. He smiled.

Looking back up at Charlie, he asked, "Before she moved back to live with you last year, Charlie, how much time did she spend with you?"

"Only the couple weeks in the summer, and the couple weeks at Christmas. I hated seeing so little of her, but I thought it was best she be with her mother, and I only get so much leave…"

Charlie trailed off, guilt hounding him like always with the questions, _What could I have done differently? What did I do wrong?_

Edward just nodded, and thought some more. "Did Isabella like living with her mother?"

Charlie considered this question carefully. "Well, she didn't say she disliked it. Of course, she's not one to complain about things, especially if she's afraid it will hurt someone's feelings. She's pretty much paranoid about hurting people's feelings. But I would guess, maybe, that she was, kind of, lonesome there?"

Charlie offered this up as a question to Edward, and Edward accepted it by nodding, then asking, "Lonely how?"

Charlie knit his brow as he thought hard about what he meant. "Well, Renee, you know she's a teacher, and always worked, so Bells, well, she spent a lot of time in daycare. And I know she didn't like that; Renee moved her around several times, trying to find the right fit. Anyway, when she was home, she told me this year that Renee spent a lot of time on the computer, or dating, so she didn't really feel; well, I'm guessing that she didn't think; um, maybe she didn't realize how much she was, well, wanted?"

Edward took this painfully offered piece of information most seriously, nodding his head deeply before stopping to look down at the girl again. "That makes sense, Charlie," he said back, reassurance in his tone.

"So what do I _do_?" Charlie responded, more quickly than he had intended.

Edward looked down at the sleeping girl in his lap again, and thought about that. Then he looked Charlie in the eyes and said, "I'm not certain, yet, Uncle Charlie, but the first thing we do is go meet with Esme."

"Esme?"

"My aunt, Esme. She's really good with troubled adolescents; she worked miracles with me. And I know she'd love Isabella. I'll message her tonight, and tomorrow you and I will take Bella over to meet her. I'm pretty sure she'll know how best to help her."

Relief flooded Charlie's expression; his whole being. For the first time in a year, he had the fleeting thought that maybe, just maybe, everything was going to be okay for his daughter. Speechless, he just nodded.

Edward smiled. "Great," he said. "Now we just need to figure out sleeping arrangements for tonight."

Charlie demurred. "I was planning to stay in a hotel, son; there's no need—"

Edward raised his hand. "Stop right there, Charlie. You know exactly how my mom would have felt about that. Besides," he continued, "I can't supervise Isabella if she's in a hotel room."

"Supervise?" Charlie asked, surprised.

"Supervise, Uncle Charlie. Did you notice how much she ate at dinner?"

Charlie nodded. He'd been shocked.

"You don't think she's going to want to keep that down, do you?"

Charlie looked up at Edward, surprised. "Oh! I guess I hadn't…thought of that."

"That's my job, Charlie; to think of these things," Edward said, a small smile on his lips. "If you preferred, we could admit her to the UC ER; normally they'd send her up to the ED unit right away, but I'm pretty sure I could get them to keep her on eval for 24 hours at least, while we figure out what we want to do."

Charlie's face went ashen. "You really think that's…necessary?"

"It's necessary that she have continuous medical oversight, Charlie. Someone as malnourished as she is can suffer a cardiac event at any moment. Not to mention the need to keep her from exercising, or otherwise getting rid of any caloric intake."

Charlie nodded grimly. Bella sure did love midnight runs. And despite his forbidding them, he knew she indulged every time he worked a night shift, which was all too frequent in his short-staffed department.

"I guess I was just kind of; well, I was hoping that maybe your Dad—" he broke off, remembering for the hundredth time since his conversation with Edward that afternoon, that Edward Cullen, Sr. was never going to give him advice again, about Isabella or anything else. Charlie sighed, then finished, "I was hoping I wouldn't have to hospitalize her, Edward."

Edward nodded seriously. "I can understand that, Charlie; really I can. Hospitals are not fun places to be. And for someone like your Isabella," pausing, Edward glanced down at the small brown head nestled against his chest, "well, I can understand very much that you would want to try and keep her home."

Charlie nodded in agreement, glad that Edward understood.

"That's why I'm offering to you to watch her myself tonight. It's technically unethical of me, because doctors aren't supposed to provide medical care to friends or family members, and I'm not supposed to practice outside of the bounds of my residency program until I'm licensed independently. But I'm okay with bending those rules, for tonight anyway, or until we can get her to see Esme; that is, if you are."

Charlie just nodded again, overcome with gratitude for Edward's assistance.

"Okay, then. I think the best place to put her is in mom and dad's old room. There's a sofa in the bedroom there, so I can put her in the big bed and still stretch out on the sofa and catch a few hours of sleep. I'll pull the sofa in front of the bedroom door so she can't get out without waking me up, and we'll rig the bathroom door so she can't open it without me." Edward paused and thought about the practicalities of this problem, then thought aloud, "Maybe we could put a latch in at the top of the doorway, too high for her to reach."

Charlie was still concerned about inconveniencing his old friends' son, and dealing with both newly-acquired survivor's guilt, and very familiar guilt about not having the first idea what the best thing to do for Isabella might be. Edward sensed all of this, and reassured him. "Really, Charlie; it's no big deal."

"Well, I know that's not true, Edward," Charlie says slowly, "but I'm prepared to take you up on all of this. I shouldn't; especially if it could cause you any problems in your profession, your future career—"

Edward tries to wave this concern off and interrupt him, but Charlie won't have it. "No, son, I won't have you minimizing what you're offering here. And I won't have you making light of my selfishness that I'm going to let you do everything you've offered. It's just that…it's just that…" and here Charlie ran out of steam, having also run out of the words to explain, out loud, just how desperate he was for somebody to do something to help his daughter.

Edward paused for a moment, then sealed their partnership in Isabella's well-being by saying, "Exactly. It's just that this is what your daughter needs right now, and like any good parent, you're willing to do whatever it takes to get that for her."

Charlie looks up at him, shamefaced, and nods. Edward smiles at him, starting to feel some of the old familiar warmth he took for granted when he was younger, and experiences so rarely now. "Uncle Charlie, you're doing exactly what Mom and Dad would have done for me, and would have wanted you to do for Isabella. Just because they're not around anymore to tell you so, doesn't make it any less true."

Charlie clears his throat, and blinks hard a couple of times. When he has the urge to cry under control, he says, "Well, I don't know about that, but I do know I am much obliged. What should I do next?"

Edward thinks, answers, "Are you handy with household repairs?"

"Not too bad," Charlie answers.

"Then I think you're in charge of installing the latch on the bathroom door."

Charlie nods. "All right. Where is it?"

Edward answers, "Upstairs, in the master suite. You remember where that is, right?"

Charlie nods again. "Hardware store?" he asks.

"Closest one is the Home Depot on Lombardy Road. Take Evanston Circle back to Center Avenue; turn left, go about two miles or so to the big intersection just before the Expressway, and turn right onto Lombardy. The Home Depot's in a mall just down the road, on the left—you can't miss it."

By now, Edward has, without thinking about it, started stroking the back of Bella's head, and down her hair, over and over, slowly, every so often adding a gentle rub with his thumb against her scalp. She's practically purring, really only half-asleep, and listening with groggy ears to everything the men have been saying about her, feeling warmer and warmer as they've gone on.

Charlie has excused himself and pushed away from the table, offering to clear the dishes, but being sent off by Edward to deal with the door instead. Edward knows Carmen will manage the mess tomorrow if he doesn't get the chance to do it himself tonight—which it's pretty clear now he won't.

Edward lingers longer at the table, staring down at the girl and strategizing about what to do next.

Coming to a decision, he carefully shifts her to allow himself to retrieve the cell phone from his pocket, and starts to text, a frustrating endeavor as he's doing it one-handed. Finally, he's satisfied with the message and sends it off, happy to hear a returning buzz just a couple of minutes later.

Reading the message, he smiles, then leans down and whispers to Isabella, even though he thinks she's sleeping, "Someone's coming to help me with you, sweetheart. They'll be here soon," then sits back to enjoy holding her, something he never would have thought he'd enjoy the way he is, a fact that troubles him just a little when it occurs to him and so is quickly pushed away underneath all the medical and psychological considerations he is reviewing as he studies the girl in his arms.

He doesn't get to relax back into contemplation, however, because as he sits back up, the girl first grows rigid, then jerks up and off his lap. Landing on her feet, she pivots and stares at him, her eyes wide open in seeming terror, her breath coming faster than is normal, or healthy.

Edward raises his eyebrows, then comes to the correct conclusion that he had scared her with what he'd said to her, not realizing she was conscious enough to hear and understand him but having had enough experience with sleeping and even unconscious patients that he should have known better, about someone new coming to help her. Inwardly chastising himself, he holds his hands out, palms facing her, as he says, speaking in the calming voice he uses with injured people in his work, "Isabella, I'm sorry I scared you. There's nothing to worry about, sweetheart; you're safe, I promise."

Isabella hears his words but doesn't believe them. Backing away from him, she starts turning her head around, checking for exits.

Edward debates calling for Charlie, and wisely decides that will scare her more. Instead, he says sternly to the girl, "Isabella, sit down."

She stops her urgent looking around the room, and stares back at him in surprise. Nobody has ever ordered her around like that before, except maybe her mother, and she has always been upset when she's done so. This man, this grown-up version of the Edward from her childhood fantasies of being his little sister, or his dog, doesn't sound upset; just very—firm.

Edward is capitalizing on her reaction, and praising her. "Good girl," he says firmly as he rises from the table, watching her flinch as he does so. "Good girl for listening," he continues, keeping his hands raised in front of him as he takes a step towards her, then stops. "Now sit down. On the ground."

Isabella is confused. Everything in her is telling her to listen to this man, except for the terrified part that is screaming at her to run. The result is she is motionless, although she does look behind her as if to scope out where she would be sitting. It's just floor behind her; she doesn't understand his instruction to sit there.

He reads her mind. "I know you don't understand what I'm telling you to do, or why," Edward says as he takes another step closer. "I want you to do it anyway." Another step. He pulls out the big guns: "That's how you can show me you appreciate my hospitality; it's what your father would want you to do."

Edward swallows a laugh at how quickly Isabella plops down when he blackmails her that way. Really, it's too easy, and for a moment he wonders how it is possible that Charlie hasn't figured out how to manage her yet.

Then he remembers that Charlie is not like him; nor are most people. Edward hadn't even realized how uncommon his air of authority and persuasive powers were until residency, when one of the other residents, frustrated by his own lack of effectiveness in getting nursing staff or patients to follow his instructions, asked Edward how the hell it was that everyone did as Edward told them to do. Edward had taken a moment to respond, totally taken aback by the question, until he thought about it and realized the truth of the other resident's assessment. Then he gave an honest answer: "I have no idea."

But that wasn't true anymore; he did have an idea, or rather he had several. And he was hoping those ideas would lead to some help for Charlie, and his starving daughter.

He was standing over the girl now, his feet touching her bent legs, his hand on her bent head. He stood like this for several minutes, petting her hair again. Finally, he spoke. "I'm going to help you up, and we're going to go upstairs to the bedroom where you will be staying. Your father's up there, and he'll help me get you settled." All the time he was speaking to her, he kept his hand heavy on her head.

Then he reached down with one hand and sought out hers, weaving his fingers through her own then closing around them, her small clammy hand engulfed by his large warm one. "It will be okay now, Isabella," he said as he carefully pulled her to standing, one arm supporting her around her waist as she rose. "I've got you," he added, as they stood a moment, her finding her balance, him feeling the trembling warmth encircled by his arm, and being unexpectedly overwhelmed by it.

"All right, then," Edward said, shaking off the surprising feeling, "let's get you upstairs." And without one more word of warning, he leaned in and gathered Isabella up in his arms, carrying her in a cradle hold as he moved out of the dining room and to the main staircase. Halfway up, he looked down at the surprised face staring up at him, eyes wide.

"Hi there, sweetheart," Edward said, and Bella squeaked and tried to turn her head.

Edward chuckled lightly, but allowed her to turn into him, shifting her in his arms so she could hide her head against his chest, feeling happier himself to have her sheltered there.

Walking through the second doorway on the left-hand side of the hallway, Edward entered the master suite overlooking the backyard grounds of the house. "How's it coming, Charlie?" he asked the man hard at work surveying the bathroom door, closing it and observing the frame construction from different angles, taking rough measurements with his hands.

"Almost done," Charlie grunted, closing the door one last time as he visualized how a certain latch he was thinking about would perform. Satisfied with its workings in his mind's eye, Charlie looked up, surprised to see Edward there holding Bella in his arms.

"Is she all right?" he asked moving quickly to their side, looking his daughter up and down, checking for sign of injury.

Edward nodded, and smiled. "Just embarrassed, I think" he said softly, as Isabella hid her face farther in his shirt.

Charlie said simply, "Oh," feeling quite embarrassed himself. Clearing his throat, he asked, painfully, "Do you need any—help with her? Before I go?"

Edward shook his head. "I have my sister, well, my cousin, really, Alice on the way here to help me with Isabella. If that's all right," he adds belatedly, looking to Charlie for the acceptance of his fait accompli that Edward knows the desperate man will give easily.

Indeed, Charlie nods his head once, his face flaming red, and mutters, "I sure appreciate this, Edward. I hope no one's putting themselves out too much—"

Edward quickly interrupts. "Not at all, Charlie. You'll find out tomorrow how much my aunt and uncle are used to taking young people under their wings. I'd bring Esme over tonight, but I know she's at an important charity event, and I'm hoping we'll have Isabella asleep before it's through." Then he laughed, and added, "You too, for that matter; you must be exhausted, having driven all the way from Washington. Forgive me my lapse in manners for not showing you to your room yet."

Charlie shook his head, saying "No, Edward, I'm the one who should ask your forgiveness for showing up on your doorstep like this. I can't tell you how much—"

Once more, Edward interrupted. "Uncle Charlie, please. You don't understand how great it is to see you again, to be reminded of my mom and dad by someone who knew them almost as well as I did. Maybe more, in some ways, since I was still a kid when they were killed. People forget, you know, when someone dies; they let the memories go because it hurts too much, and it's too hard, to hold on to them. But they didn't die for you until today, so it's almost like they're still alive in your memory—I can feel it; I can feel them. I haven't felt like that in years, Charlie. Please, don't apologize."

Charlie stands there, a little taken aback, a lot relieved. He nods then, says, "All right, son; I'm glad I can do that much for you, and I'm sorry I was too big a coward to have done more, sooner. Maybe that will come out for the best though; that much I guess I can still hope for."

And with nothing else said, Charlie turned and marched down the stairs and out to his car, heading to the Home Depot.

Edward was a little surprised at the Chief's (he remembered that his Dad had often called Uncle Charlie "Chief" as a nickname, ever since Charlie had been promoted to head his small town's police department) willingness to leave Edward alone with his teenaged daughter, but then smiled ruefully as he looked down at the daughter in question and realized he'd have to be a twisted sort indeed to want to take any liberties whatsoever with the emaciated bundle in his arms. What Edward did feel, to an extent that kept surprising him, was not desire of a carnal sort, but rather a really strong protectiveness; an animal sort of willingness to bare his teeth and defend her against any threat-even herself; especially herself.

At that moment, the girl in question raised her head and shyly said, her eyes kept carefully on the view of the room beyond his shoulder, "I feel much better now. I can get down."

Edward laughed out loud at how accurately he had assessed the danger. For certain, this girl was her own worst enemy, and up until now, it appeared she had been given free rein to terrorize herself. He stared down at her for a lingering moment, summoning her eyes with the weight of his own gaze, then letting her know with the crook of his brow and the twinkle in his eye, not to mention the grin on his lips, that her reign of terror was officially over.

After letting the nonverbals sink in, he added, "I don't think so."

Isabella seemed nonplussed; confused. Edward relished the confusion, thinking about how much fun it was going to be to prove to her over and over again that she no longer had any control over her life whatsoever. He waited for the protest. He was not disappointed.

"But, I don't need you to carry me," she asserted, trying to sit up in his arms. He didn't let her, and he noted the first little shading of panic in the warm brown of her intelligent eyes.

Looking around to find the most comfortable place for him to ride out the upcoming hissy fit, Edward chose the leather sofa that he would be calling a bed that evening. Sitting down on it, and settling Isabella's tense body on his lap again, one side of his hold of her supported by the sofa's arm rest so that he could redirect more muscle power to restraining her, Edward then said, completely calm and matter-of-fact, "You don't get to decide what you need anymore, little girl."

The first exclamation was merely surprised. A little faint, hesitant, as if she wasn't sure she had heard correctly, Isabella said, "What? I'm sorry, but, um, what did you say?"

Edward laughed again, more deeply. "Oh, you heard me, little girl. I said exactly what you thought I did. And I promise you, I meant every word."

Not a second passed before the freak-out happened. First came the attempted roll-and-stand, then when that was thwarted by his iron grip around her, the desperate flailing against his hold. She was so weak that it felt more like the beating of butterfly wings against his arms, and Edward told her so.

"You're going to need to fatten up a little, sweetheart, before you'll be able to even move my arm an inch, let alone break out. I recommend you give it up for now before your heart rate gets so high you pass out and I have to hospitalize you."

She'd been fighting all through the little speech, until he got to the word, "hospitalize," when she went rigidly still once more. "Please," she whispered, "please don't send me away."

Risking the removal of one of his arms because he knew it wasn't that much of a risk, Edward used one hand to stroke down her head and hair again, speaking gently, "I don't want to hospitalize you, Isabella, and even if I have to in order to stabilize you medically, I promise I won't abandon you there, and I know Charlie and the rest of my family won't either."

There was silence in response, but Edward felt her body start to relax a little and rewarded her with a quiet, "That's my girl," after which Isabella began to sob. It was silent at first, just a shaking of her body and tears coursing down her face, but soon noises began to escape, little gasps followed by small cries followed by loud cries that broke Edward's heart. Gathering her to his chest, he held her tightly there with one arm while the other hand continued its path, down her head, hair and back, over and over, sometimes lingering against her back and rubbing circles there with the palm of his hand, sometimes breaking a moment to tuck loose hair behind her ear, or wipe tears away.

When there was a pause in the crying, Edward looked around for something with which to wipe her face. Coming up empty—the Kleenex box on the bedside table was too far away to be reached, and he didn't judge her ready yet to be moved—he yanked the front of his button-down shirt out from his jeans and unbuttoned from the bottom until he was able to bring one end of it up to reach Isabella's face, which he gently rubbed clean with the material.

She startled and then froze at this action, wondering what she should do. He told her. "I know it's asking a lot of you to put your trust in someone you probably don't even remember, Isabella, but that's what I'm asking you to do." He laughed lightly, remembering the sweet and shy six-year-old that his mother had adored, and seeing how little the six-year-old had changed despite the intervening years. "I remember you, though," he said affectionately, giving her hair a small tug at the end of her ponytail.

Bella blushed madly at this drug-like attention from a powerful male, the very thing she had been desperately seeking since the start of adolescence without admitting it to herself or anyone else. Her eyes closed tightly in current embarrassment and future fear of the inevitable ending to this unexpected interlude, Bella whispered, "I remember you too," before turning her head and hiding her face once more in the welcoming warmth of Edward's embrace.


End file.
